


Black Sheep

by rochelleechidna



Series: Domestic Ishtars [2]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Anger, Bigotry & Prejudice, Discrimination, Family Dynamics, Gen, Hand Jobs, M/M, Making Out, Rejection, Self-Acceptance, Thiefshipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24880381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rochelleechidna/pseuds/rochelleechidna
Summary: Malik isn't averse to attention - even revels in it - yet too often he's noticed for all the wrong reasons by all the wrong people.
Relationships: Yami Bakura/Malik Ishtar
Series: Domestic Ishtars [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1721830
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24





	Black Sheep

**Author's Note:**

> I was originally planning on writing another idea for this series before this one, but then life happened and causal racism became a thing and guess it's project-on-Malik-o'clock haha This fic is more angry than angsty this time around, but doesn't that describe our favourite Egyptian in a nutshell? For this whole series, I envision all the stories being interconnected but not necessarily written in chronological order - so if something is referenced or seems like a big leap in events from a previous piece, that's probably why.

Malik is six-years-old – an intrepid, lively little thing running through the darkened tombs that are all he’s known in life – when he first realises that he is considered different for more than just his birthright.

It is when he makes his way around a corner – laughter echoing through the vacuous halls as he careens to and fro without any supervision for once – that he trips and falls, scuffing his just-washed tunic with dirt and scraping his small hands against the hard stone floor. He does not cry out – at least not immediately, the shock too crushing a blow to his developing ego – and winces at an unseen cut along his forehead as blood trickles down.

His first thought is that Rishid will be disappointed – never angry – for being so careless, and that his father will surely bestow some form of punishment to his brother if the mess doesn’t get cleaned up _now_.

His second thought veers more towards the positive when a series of high-pitched squeals and giggles sound from up ahead, coming ever closer.

Malik leans himself against the scratchy wall to lift his small frame upright – careful to stop any blood from entering his eyes. As he does so, several children close to his age – there are so few in the tombs, considering the lack of women and privacy and hope – run forward from the darkness and slow down as they approach Lord Ishtar’s only rightful heir.

“Please don’t tell my father.” Malik offers as genuine a smile as he can – in spite of the pain coursing through his body – and extends a hand out to a boy with wiry black hair and dark eyes. “It was my fault. I just need help getting to the baths so I can clean up.”

The boy to whom the request is directed stares dumbfounded at the hand – a hand that has never done a day’s work in its comparatively short life – and turns to look at the three other boys and two girls that make up his party. Malik tilts his head in confusion at their lack of assistance – are they concerned about soiling their own clothes? becoming accomplices to his folly? daring to touch the son of their clan’s leader? – before all the children back away from his unsteady form against the wall. They huddle together and whisper to each other while stealing glances in his direction – every passing second becomes harder and harder for Malik to support himself.

“Our fathers say we’re not supposed to be seen with you.” The same boy from earlier finally speaks – and Malik can only gape at the confession.

“I promise you won’t get into any trouble! It just hurts really bad and—”

“Why do you look like that?” Another child – a long-haired girl with skin similar to his sister's – pipes up from the back. Malik doesn’t know how to respond, and spends too long trying to conjure up an answer.

“Children!” A booming voice strides up quickly to the group – its owner sighs when the blemished vision of Malik becomes clear. “Don’t just stand there. Help him on his way to the healers. Now.”

The adult’s expression speaks the same words that came out of the children’s mouths moments before, but Malik doesn’t fully register the subtlety. He also doesn’t protest the change of plans – resigned to the future punishment from his father, however it may be doled out – when the children obey their elder and carefully grab at his frail limbs. But a sudden hand in Malik’s hair jolts him out of his temporary peace, and he turns his head to see the widened brown eyes of another boy curiously staring _through_ his own.

“It feels just like mine...” The boy keeps his hold on the golden locks and leans in close to Malik’s face. “But you don’t _look_ like us.”

A day later – after he has recovered and Rishid has sufficiently suffered for allowing harm to befall his “master” – those words still rattle in Malik’s head like a mosquito aiming to strike when least expected.

* * *

The first time Malik actually gets to see himself – _really_ see himself without the use of a rippling bucket of water or a muddied piece of glass – is when he and Rishid fall into the first genuine bed they’ve ever set eyes upon. Still nowhere close to being men yet having grown up far too early, both boys lavish in the soft pillows and comfy duvets, rolling around in the enveloping warmth in spite of the hot Egyptian air blazing outside - not to mention the various traumas they’ve endured of late.

As Malik lifts his head up from the king-sized comforter, his view turns towards the expansive bathroom just across the way. He rushes forward into an array of sweet-smelling fragrances and bright lights – and stops when he catches sight of his reflection in the mirrors that hang over the sink.

At age eleven, never before has he seen his visage so clearly – all platinum blond and violet eyes and glowing tan skin and angular face and countenance of a king. The comments from those in his clan – not just from the day he fell years ago, but the cut-off remarks and heated whispers that rumbled like thunder within the tombs whenever he’d enter a room full of elder men – suddenly make all too much sense.

Rishid enters the inviting space and places his hands on Malik’s shoulders in comfort – yet it provides anything but. Malik stares at the face of his older brother and conjures up the image of his sister, and feels a slight twinge of **Anger** at how relatively normal they both look within the Ishtar clan – not to mention how much better they fit in among what little he’s seen of the above-ground world. At least Rishid’s facial carvings should detract from any strange looks his way, Malik hopes – silently _prays_.

It’s a prayer that Malik continues a few years later - as the brothers traverse what must be their fifteenth country and stop at a local department store upon Rishid’s insistence that they purchase new clothes. After a terse argument that ends in the younger boy conceding – _never_ losing – Malik finds himself face-to-face yet again with his own reflection as he stares at the full-body mirror and tries on outfit after outfit. Finding the task oddly comforting – and freeing, given his vehemence at never again wearing simple tunics since leaving the tombs – he stops at a lavender hoodie and holds it up against his awkward, developing frame. The colour suits his distinctive eyes and complements his blond hair and yes it fits now but at this rate Malik will outgrow it within the year – and his late father would certainly never approve of such a royal fabric.

He buys it anyway, once again quietly thankful that Rishid can handle any matters that involve dealing with actual people and detract from his own displaced countenance – unless he has the Rod on hand, Malik avoids interacting with anyone he has no interest in controlling.

“I look a lot like him, don’t I?”

They stop for lunch at a ramen stand afterwards – their preparations for eventually traveling to Japan extend to such trivial activities as eating – and Rishid looks up from his bowl in abrupt understanding.

“It’s to be expected. You were his son.” It’s the first exchange they’ve had in months which puts both of them on equal footing – neither servant nor master, leader nor follower.

“I wonder if he also...” Malik doesn’t know how to phrase his thoughts – words fail him so rarely – and smashes his own bowl into the table in **Frustration**. It doesn't break, and he stretches a gold-adorned arm across the metal surface and taps his fingers in impatience. He doesn’t quite know why he finally says what he says next – like a hidden part of his psyche compels him to speak. “I’m not him. But I _am_ the head of our clan.”

Rishid nods, and they set up for the unspoken procedure in their hotel room the following day. As Malik sits in the chair and awaits the inevitable discomfort from the needles, his brother extends a hand out for comfort - but it’s swiftly waved away. Malik is the head of the Ishtar clan and the Ghouls, has already experienced more agony in fourteen years than most people have in several lifetimes – and this is the final pain that he’ll ever endure for the sake of his father.

When the cartilage is finally pierced – and he sees how the earrings droop on either side of his face – Malik takes some small comfort in remembering that at least one other person in the world also looked like him.

* * *

Were Malik not so hell-bent on his years-long goal to defeat who he sees as the enemy of his people, he might take more note how – ironically, perhaps as some karmic retribution – the friends of the once-dead Pharaoh are some of the few people he’s encountered who don’t comment on how he inevitably doesn’t… belong? fit in?

He’s gotten some looks from the Japanese boys he’s passed on the streets – especially while riding Lady Death at top speed – and heard mentions of something called _Ganguro_ from displeased women as he’s sat with Rishid in a rare moment of respite. It’s to be expected in a homogenous country – Malik has seen enough of the world now to realise that nowhere and everywhere feels like home when you’ve grown up away from it to begin with.

Yet he _does_ take note of the white-haired fiend – or is it friend? – who slashes his own arm in solidarity to help Malik achieve his goals. _Their_ goals.

“There’s something we both want and something we both need. Perhaps we can help one another.”

And for once, Malik isn’t sure if the foreign-tongued beauty before him is _really_ talking about the Millennium Items, the Pharaoh… or something else entirely different. He’s never played nice with others so well before – no surprise, considering how much Malik has been played by those he should have been able to trust.

But it’s when Bakura goes against his commands during the first face-off against the Pharaoh that Malik realises for the first time that this boy cares little for who he is - so long as they win in _some_ way. The sensation is so Gods damn refreshing that Malik hardly minds when the first duel is lost.

“I should probably punish you for that act of insolence. But something tells me you’d actually enjoy the pain.”

“Clever one, aren’t you? Your ideas may even be more ruthless than mine. I can appreciate that.”

Bakura falls unconscious, and they don’t speak again until the **Anger** and **Hatred** and **Frustration** seethe within Malik – as the too-familiar murmured asides juxtaposed with the easygoing nature of those he’s sworn to make pay roll around in his head, only serving to off-set an already fragile ego - and he falls to the **Darkness** long-hidden in the recesses of his soul.

When Malik eventually catches sight of **Himself** , he is less surprised at how such a dark being could have manifested from within his young mind – and more aghast that, for once, how he feels on the inside is finally reflected in his exterior visage.

But more than anything, he’s shocked by the last few moments he shares with Bakura. Bakura who fights for him and his brother for no discernible reason. Bakura who readily joined his cause. Bakura who isn’t afraid to second-guess his every plan as they fight to the death against the **Darkness**. Bakura who looks at Malik with some of the most understanding eyes he’s ever seen. Bakura who, if he’d met him under any other circumstances, might have been Malik’s equal for longer than a few days.

The fires eventually consume them both. From that moment on until he’s eventually saved by his sworn enemy, Malik places those precious moments with Bakura deep in his heart. It’s a salve for his tormented soul – and a reminder of when he didn’t have to be a tombkeeper or a mafia leader or a clan head, and was allowed to just be… Malik Ishtar.

* * *

Isis insists that the three of them start afresh, away from Luxor, after the incidents surrounding Kaiba’s excavation have concluded – a “beginning” which includes not only finding somewhere new to live and brand new jobs to keep them busy, but also pursuing mundane tasks like doctor’s appointments.

“All three of you have such unusual eyes. But yours especially…” The ophthalmologist stares perhaps a bit too long through her strange device – it’s only when Malik furrows his brow and audibly coughs that she finally moves back. “Like your siblings, it seems you too suffer from myopia. Yours, though, seems especially advanced. I’d be curious if there’s anything you can think of which might explain why a young man like yourself has such degenerative vision.”

Malik internally curses the years spent parsing through barely-legible scrolls by candle-light – and nearly verbally curses the doctor for insinuating that how he looks or what he was forced to do as a child might be the cause of his worsening eyesight. Instead, he fakes a smile and leans back in the chair like he owns it.

“What can I say? I _read_ a lot.” If ever Malik wishes he could have the Rod to make his point especially clear, now would be it.

“Well, with this prescription, hopefully those headaches you mentioned should ease up enough so that you can keep on reading to your heart’s content.” The smile is returned – almost too similarly fake – and Malik nearly laughs at the insinuation that the **Fear** and **Trauma** still living within him could be quieted by a simple pair of glasses. And then another, almost more terrifying realisation hits him.

“I’d actually prefer contacts.” No need to attract more negative attention by wearing a thick set of frames, he concludes.

It takes all of half an hour for Malik to get used to sticking the small silicone in his eyes. Indeed, the world does open up in ways he never realised, and it’s like he’s seeing all that life has to offer for the first time.

Yet as he looks in the mirror, he finds _he_ just looks the same as usual – unnaturally pretty, strikingly intense and obviously different.

* * *

By the time he’s left behind his teenage years like the bad memories they are, Malik works alongside his siblings at the local museum – spending his time researching historical inaccuracies and chuckling to himself at the obvious mistakes plastered on nearly every placard. It’s busy work mostly, but it’s something to keep away the tedium of lying in bed all day and the threat of **Himself** taking over again.

Yet the latter task gets harder and harder to keep under wraps when he has to deal with the fools known as his co-workers each day. Men, women, locals, tourists, historians, amateurs – the casual doubts about his work’s authenticity grate on Malik the longer he spends in the museum’s employ, and not a day goes by where he doesn’t get looks from _someone_ for showing his claws in both action and words. The fact that he drapes himself in gold and dark biker jackets and flimsy tank tops - his style and wardrobe ever-expanding with each paycheck - earns him several looks a day from women _and_ men, but no less ire.

“How _do_ you know so much about all this?” One female co-worker – with a loud mouth that doesn’t quite match her conservative dress – asks during lunch one day. Malik will admit that she has a nice face, but can’t get past her nosy attitude on full display each time they pass in the halls.

“It’s a calling, I suppose. Hate seeing my culture misrepresented.” It’s not a complete lie – he shrugs his shoulders and stands to pour a cup of tea.

“But you’re not even _really_ Egyptian.” The boiling water nearly falls onto Malik’s boots - his hands itch with **Revulsion** and a desire to tear his co-worker apart.

“Sorry, what?” He can barely say the words through the most forced of smiles.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love how you stand out around here. You’re so unique and exotic! Not to mention how you dress and that bike you ride…” The tension in Malik’s body must be apparent, and a million thoughts run through his head as to how he can leave the conversation _now_. “I just don’t know any other men who look or act as you do.”

“Does that make me any less Egyptian? Any less good at my job?”

“I guess compared to the rest of us, it just makes you… different.”

Malik doesn’t know exactly what happens next, but by the time he’s snapped out of his bout of **Anger** he’s sat in the apartment that he shares with Rishid and Isis, listening to their too-calm voices on either side.

“—And I’m sure it was just an accident, brother, but there’s also only so much I can do. My influence at the museum is great, yes, but—”

“What we’re trying to say, _habibi_ , is that we’re here to help—”

“It’s all his fault.”

Isis looks at Malik in confusion, before dawning comes across Rishid’s face.

“Our father is the cause for much blame, but you are more than a lovely face. And you wear it better than he ever could.” Rishid pulls Malik against his shoulder and wraps his arms around him tight. “Not everyone in this world will appreciate that your soul is a fire and your mind is a hurricane.”

“That’s me. A natural disaster. Or a disaster of nature. Take your pick.”

“We’ve all had to adjust in these last few years. And there are certain… _facets_ of this society that are harder to reconcile than others.” Now Isis pipes up, running her hands through Malik’s hair – he flinches unconsciously at the gesture, but doesn’t stop her ministrations. “It would be best to not get so worked up about how others perceive you. There is no need to change yourself to please others.”

A flash of **Despondency** alights in Malik’s eyes, but he merely nods his approval and eases more into Rishid’s body, hiding his face from view.

“I’m glad you can take such advice so gracefully, brother.”

* * *

Just because he left his job at the museum on less-than-stellar terms doesn’t mean that he can’t support his sister when the gods-forsaken place holds a ceremony in her honour, Malik rationalises. He brings his camera along to the too-ritzy hotel to document the momentous occasion – the Nikon D1 now being his second-most prized possession, after Lady Death II – and shies away from the crowds to allow Isis the spotlight. Rishid stays close by, and disapprovingly covers for Malik as he steals a few drinks from the bar.

“You’re still half a year shy, _habibi_.” Rishid pushes his new glasses up and raises an eyebrow, but – in spite of his chastising - there’s no mistaking the warmth that lies behind his eyes.

“So far as my criminal acts are concerned, I’d argue this ranks fairly low.” They share a good – if not awkward – chuckle, and Malik downs the alcohol in a few sips so as to avoid attention. He feels more than hears the **Despondency** cry out at the neurons flaring in their head – and Malik swears that one of these days he’ll have to have a genuine heart-to-heart with **Himself** about how they can balance each other’s temperaments.

But today is not that day, he realises, as he senses a flash of light to his side. Malik whips his head around to find himself on the receiving end of a subpar camera, manned by an even more subpar man – clearly a foreigner, in spite of his “tan” courtesy of the Egyptian sun.

“Quite the pair, aren’t you?” A Frenchman – easy enough for Malik to tell even before he opened his annoying mouth.

“Our sister. She’s the one being honoured tonight.” Rishid answers – _thank Gods_ – while Malik preoccupies himself with looking through the photos on his camera. Each one that passes by is a testament to the fact that the words of the foreigner aren’t exactly wrong. Dark hair here. Dark eyes there. Light skin here. Modest dress there.

“Sister? I can see the resemblance here—” The man points at Rishid, then passes his finger over to Malik – who laughs to himself at the irony of what he knows will be said next. “—You trying to look like one of us then?”

Malik flashes his most innocent doe-eyes and does a seductive lean-back of his shoulders against the velvet chair – before he smiles sweetly and finally speaks.

“I certainly pull it off better than you do trying to look like _us_.”

The foreigner is taken aback, yet simultaneously appears intrigued. But Malik’s certainly not going to go into the genetics of the last 3,000 years of his family’s existence and explain why he looks the way he does - whether it’s the aspects of himself he can or can’t help.

“You can’t mean that that’s your _real_ hair!” And Malik prays to the Gods he no longer believes in that this fool won’t do what he’s about to do as he leans over and extends a hand out and— “Can I touch it?”

Like too many times before, Malik’s sat in the back of a taxi by the time he regains some semblance of control over his **Anger**. The words “broken camera” and “cost thousands” and “have to pay” and “diplomatic relations” and “caused a scene” and “why are you like _this_ ” ring through his head – as if he hadn’t really lost time for the last ten minutes and was conscious of causing pain to those around him all along.

* * *

Despite all his years of mental troubles and his adoration of the sun, Malik finds himself oddly drawn to the scant nightlife that his “home country” – the term used more for simplicity than accuracy – has to offer. He is twenty-one, with an at-times contradictory love for life – and a man around his age pinned against a wall outside one of Luxor’s more enticing nightclubs. The alleyway provides enough cover and the boom from inside produces enough noise that their illicit, temporary rendezvous remains hidden from prying eyes.

Malik works their mouths together in a sloppy dance – neither able nor caring to remember the man’s name, courtesy of the alcohol he’s imbibed – as he cups his face with one hand and reaches between his legs with another. It’s not fireworks or anything and the guy is frankly low on Malik’s list of people he’s kissed – a list _just_ long enough for his liking – yet it will do for now.

The man arches into Malik as buttons are popped unseen, and his hand reaches in to grab at what turns out to be a fairly unimpressive erection. The kisses continue, but at this point it’s more so that hopefully the show can end with a whimper and a quick awkward exchange of pleasantries and Malik can drive home to feel some sense of accomplishment and… isn’t this what young people are _supposed_ to do?

The strokes grow in speed and Malik’s hand is getting tired so he switches from his right to his left and moves to mark the man’s neck and _get this over with_. The act draws out slightly annoying moans that threaten to reveal their compromised situation – Malik curses himself for a millisecond that he doesn’t have the privacy of a car where he can more freely explore his sexuality, away from the critical society in which he lives.

Malik feels a hand pass through his hair – and just barely makes out enough words from the limp-dick in front of him to see red.

“Carpets… match… the drapes?”

The terrible pick-up line would be enough for him to back away on a normal day – the implication, however, earns the idiot a sharp bite to the neck and a swift knee to the groin. Malik leaves him whining on the ground and moves to straddle his motorcycle on the opposite end of the alley.

He thinks on many things as he rides through the still-bustling city and ignores its many traffic signs all in the name of getting home as quickly as possible – his “home” for all of a few months, now that he’s finally moved out. No matter how far he travels, he always ends up back in Luxor – the irony hurts almost as much as the scars on his back.

Malik ponders why he keeps doing this to himself – sure, there’s the temporary thrill of someone finding him hot enough to lock lips with, but moving beyond that and into _other territory_ leaves him feeling… empty. Certainly more empty than whenever he’s given into his urges with—

Shaking his head and swerving through cars, Malik then considers how this is the shitmillionth time someone has just _had_ to point out how fucking different he is. How he doesn’t fit in. Doesn’t belong. Never _will_ belong despite coming from a lineage that’s lasted longer than most plebes he passes on the street each day.

And he wonders why that difference _bothers_ him so much.

It’s great for standing out in all the _right_ ways, yes – but aside from desperate stares by female patrons at the bar where he works, the veiled remarks from bemused tourists he encounters each day and a few nights of heavy petting with pretty strangers… what is there really to stand out _for_? Why does he still feel like an outsider in his own country? His own family? His own _life_?

Malik recognises the **Anger** that now boils under his skin as too similar to what he’s experienced for years and years and years. He and **Himself** have talked about this – and as fun as it is to put morons in their place, they know he can’t inflict damage on a daily basis without garnering too much of the _wrong_ kind of attention. Not that Malik’s gotten much else lately.

Instead, he allows his **Anger** to throw his bike into a screeching brake at the nearest drugstore – he loads a basket-worth of black hair dye in a bag and races home to finally tackle the issue head-on, literally.

Once home, he looks himself over in the mirror as he’s done countless times before – kohl still intact, but all other make-up in various shades of disarray. He undresses from his too-tight top, takes out his contacts and starts removing everything from his face when he catches a familiar shape out of his distorted periphery – he’s long ago stopped wondering how and when Bakura will show up, but at least he knows what’s about to happen.

“That bad a lay?”

“Didn’t even make it that far.” Malik scoffs and continues his nightly ritual to ready himself for bed. “ _Never_ make it that far.”

He’s shocked when he feels a hand run along his back – yet unsurprised that this is the only person whom he allows that privilege – and just barely makes out that Bakura’s face holds a concerned expression, searching his own through the mirror.

“What makes me so special then?”

“ _Pfft._ I may be tipsy right now, but I’d remember if we’ve fucked.” Bakura raises his eyebrows in response and rests his head against Malik’s shoulder – they never discuss it, but this level of comfort has grown steadily over time and provides some of the few moments of genuine solace for the former tombkeeper. He continues, voice wavering against his will. “You don’t treat me… any differently.”

“Is that a question or a statement?”

“Observation.” Malik turns to actually look at Bakura now – Bakura who always wears the same striped shirt and the same sneakers and the same black jacket that inevitably falls to the floor _right about now_. “You never have. Only one who—”

“Treated you like _you_?” Bakura allows himself to be leaned against the nearest bathroom wall – all a part of their ritual – and Malik immediately feels a rush of passion surge like electrical shocks through his body when the spirit runs cool hands along his exposed sides. The warmth that Malik’s body emanates more than makes up for the shift in temperature – he’ll never admit how often he craves a sensation different from his own – and he holds back a shudder when Bakura whispers against his ear. “We barely knew each other for a week. You must have had a _very_ high opinion of me for us to keep meeting like this after all these years.”

Malik doesn’t bother to mention that that wasn’t the _only_ thing he had in their brief partnership years ago – but settles for leaning in to capture familiar lips against his own and _Gods_ this is so much more enticing, so much more thrilling, so much more _everything_ than whatever he’s done with any actual humans for the last few years. He doesn’t have to act here, doesn’t have to try to fit in – every sound he makes is genuine and the only thing that needs fitting is himself against Bakura’s lithe body.

The necessity for control always means Malik is the first to reach for something more – it’s no different tonight as his hand, like earlier, reaches down to cup the growing bulge within his partner’s jeans. He fondles the shape it makes through the fabric – listens to Bakura’s growing sighs as they push against each other and grab at hips and cheeks and asses.

When he senses that Bakura’s had enough teasing, Malik lifts the shirt and expertly gains entry to his abdomen – reaching lower and lower until he claims his prize with a shared moan. He almost doesn’t notice when his partner’s digits caress the tight leather around his own cock and gradually – without breaking their eager, languid kisses – unzips the pants to grab hold.

"You're so _hard_..."

The words - breathed more than spoken - spur Malik's wrist faster. Maybe it’s the familiarity, maybe it’s the fact that he’s been drinking, maybe it’s how for the first time he’s feeling another’s skin against his and isn’t _completely_ repulsed by the act. Touching Bakura this way and being touched by Bakura this way is the height of ecstasy, and Malik wonders again why he tries so damn hard to search for a sense of belonging when clearly _this_ is what feels most right in his fucked-up life.

" _Please_... Finish me off..."

They move as if they’ve practiced for years – knowing just how to stroke, what amount of pressure makes them swoon, if faster or slower will draw forth the more delectable groans of desire. As they approach the usual but very-much-needed end, they pull away from their bruised lips to rest their foreheads together – panting and holding the other’s face with whatever free hand is available and locking eyes as long as they can before they both shamelessly cry their releases and prolong the pleasure they share for what could pass for infinity.

When they’ve both come down from their respective highs, Bakura leans his face against Malik’s shoulder and gestures to the untouched hair dye still sat on the sink.

“Don’t change yourself.” The spirit speaks through heated skin, and the words ring a bit too familiar for Malik’s liking – he loves his siblings more than life itself, but the last thing he wants is to hear Bakura sounding like Rishid or Isis.

“Is that you admitting how sexy you think I am?” Malik attempts to keep the mood light – he lifts Bakura’s chin up and leans in for another kiss, before his partner breaks away like the spirit he is.

“It’s me saying that I know what it’s like to be treated as an outcast.” Malik _thinks_ he understands – after all, he’s the one who'd initially been welcomed more warmly by the Pharaoh’s allies during Battle City than Bakura had with fucking blood rolling down his arm – but the spirit just turns away and shakes his head, as if the former tombkeeper couldn’t possibly comprehend. For a split second – perhaps because of his impeded sense of sight – Malik swears Bakura holds an expression of pain. But it’s quickly replaced by one of usual smarminess as he sits himself atop the sink. “If you need a reason, stay as you are to spite your father. Bastard would roll in his grave to see you all dolled up like you were tonight.”

Malik holds back a blush at the subtle compliment. Uncaring that his hand is still dirtied, he stares into the mirror and examines the face he sees – his father’s, his **Other’s** , his megalomaniacal teenage self’s, his childhood’s before the ritual, his current—

The hair dye is promptly stuffed under the sink. The **Anger** growls for release, but is shushed as Malik cleans himself up and climbs into bed. Curiously, Bakura hasn’t left so quickly this time – the spirit crosses his arms, and Malik looks up at him from under his many blankets.

“You’re usually gone by now.”

“Seems you weren’t done with me yet.” Bakura sits next to him on the bed and places a hand out for the taking – Malik grabs it without a moment’s hesitation and pulls the spirit alongside him so that they lay parallel. It’s a more awkward fit than would be expected given their particular relationship, but it’s new and safe and not moving too quickly for his liking and the **Fear** is definitely placated right now – probably for the first time ever – as Bakura strokes up and down his arms as tenderly as Malik would ever dream.

The former tombkeeper makes a half-assed promise that next weekend he’ll just stay home and read a book or something instead of trying to find a sense of belonging between sweaty bodies and unhealthy attention. It’s a broken promise, sure, but - after all - Malik has no reason to hide. He begrudgingly admits that sometimes his family has the right idea – that sometimes even Bakura has the right idea. People can take him or leave him for who he is – he only hopes they choose the former.

Before he slips into sleep – and before he realises that Bakura has finally vanished, as usual – Malik stops wondering when he’ll be accepted and settles for accepting himself. At least for one night.


End file.
